


South

by NateFraust



Series: Statues [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Gen, Post-Season/Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 18:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NateFraust/pseuds/NateFraust
Summary: "Some truths, over time, can learn to play nice,Some truths are sharper than knives;Some truths we only see in the corners of our eyes,Some truths we wish we could hide.Some truths can save us;Some take our lives.Some truths are fire,And some truths are ice..."South - Sleeping at Last---In time, the last of the Dragons, and her city, rebuilds, and grows anew.





	South

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ondurās ūja - High Valyrian: (You) grab it.  
> khemok nán ĝat - Aureate Yi Tish: wood man pole (Yi Tish version of spinning wooden post used in Chinese martial arts)  
> Hador - Dothraki: Gust of Wind

**South**

 

She gazes up at the twisted monstrosity of blades, at the lopsided lean to the backing, like the weight of a thousand souls had warped away from the dark dread that was Balerion, mount to Aegon, FIrst of His Name. Rustling comes from her left, Rhaegal keening as he looks upon the Throne.

“ _ Ondurās ūja _ ,” she whispers; no tears prick at her eyes.

_ I shall  _ not _ be a new Scab. _

* * *

 

The rebuilding has been going slowly. The missed shots from the Lannister-Greyjoy forces had landed among the shanties of Flea Bottom and the Iron Gate, reducing walls to rubble and decimating those smallfolk who hadn’t yet reached the Red Keep. Workers from the Street of Steel have become more mason and carpenter than blacksmith and bowyer, raising new homes and battlements. Valemen and stormlanders walk among the people, their hands more preoccupied with assisting those in need than with resting on their swords’ pommels.

A knock at the door turns her head from the balcony.

“It’s time, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Ser Branfield.”

She squares her shoulders, and her gaze sets briefly on the west. The waist is nearly done; the knee crests over the blackened marble wall that comprises the remainder of the Great Sept, a sheer cliff of stone pale as snow.

Shivering from the sudden wash of cold, she draws her fur cloak tight, turns, and walks out the door to her apartments.

* * *

 

She trains in as light an armor as she can manage, a decision that caused most of those who first heard her utter her request to look at her askance. A hard look in their direction seemed to cure them of such incredulity, and Branfield and Grey Worm begrudgingly acquiesced to her demands.

The cold hardly bothers her; at times, she feels as though a fire had come alight in her stomach, warming her from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. It quickens her movements, spurring her to strike harder and faster at the cloth-and-ironwood mannequin, to deflect and rebuff the  _ khemok nán ĝat _ and its’ whirling arms. She would be a fool to not be able to defend herself and her children, if ever the time comes.

Thus, she trains, with lance and Heartsbane, with  _ arakh _ and dagger, and any other number of deadly implements. More often than not, she comes away with scrapes and bruises, but slowly, she learns.

As she crosses the middle bailey in the direction of the serpentine steps, the sun crests over a dome chiseled into sea-beaten strands. The hooded eyes stare in the direction of the Great Hall, just as she ordered the sculptors to do.

* * *

 

For the third time in as twice as many months, she silently curses the Mad Lioness for her stubbornness. Garth Greysteel, her Master of Coin, reports that, with the annihilation of House Tyrell in the early months of Cersei’s reign, she had tasked House Hightower with increasing the production of foodstuffs for the coming winter by only twice of what they had been growing; a small, but growing number of the smallfolk, thank goodness, had foregone the Lioness’ orders and grown thrice, or even four times, their usual quotas, and have been storing them in various areas throughout the Reach and Riverlands.

“Thank you, kind Ser. With luck, the supplements from the North will offset any deficiencies we may have. Lord Jasper, what news of banditry?”

The virescent Master of Laws looked upon her with not a little bit of temerity before clearing his throat and beginning. “Ser Ryley and his network have made quick work of many of the camps Lord Varys’...  _ birds _ had found, though that craven Lucion and his pride have escaped. Rest assured, Your Grace, we shall find them again, and soon.”

Varys titters at the sour inflection in the knight’s voice. “The winds and cold permitting, of course.”

“Indeed.” She looks to Tyrion, unsurprised to find him glancing in her direction. “Anything to add to your report, my Lord?”

The Hand of the Queen fixes his gaze on the center of the table, sipping at a goblet of Dornish yellow as he settles his thoughts. “Lord Jaime has taken Casterly Rock, and reports moderate casualties on our forces’ behalf. The Ironborn have been spotted in the Lion’s Maw and Ironman’s Bay, flying flags of white and of black sun on golden field.”

Her shoulders loosen after a moment as she recalls her studies of Maester Maraet’s  _ Nautical Banners and Their Meanings _ , and she nods curtly. “Even better, then.”

She rises to her feet and bows to her Small Council, who rise and bow in return. “Carry on in my stead, Lord Tyrion. I wish for a full recount this evening.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Striding towards the entrance, she motions towards Branfield. “Have Jhiqui bring Hador round,” she whispers to the old Westerosi. “I wish to ride among my people.”

The Northman dips his head. “As Your Grace commands.”

* * *

 

Her cloak is drab, made of coarse sackcloth and matted with dirt and various fluids. The hood, though frayed by time, is sturdy and wide enough to mask the distinct argental sheen of her line’s hair. A small wave of bitterness rises up in her as she casts her thoughts to the east; Illyrio had written her regarding the arrival of Jon Snow in Pentos months ago; only recently, however, had she heard more on the matter; Daario had housed the Northman at the Great Pyramid of Mereen for a time, before he’d left around a month before the letter had arrived, headed east with his “great pale storm” of a direwolf and skirting around the other flux-ridden cities of Slaver's’ Bay.

Shaking her head roughly to banish the memories, she crouches, reading the plaque at the base of the statue:

 

_ Here Stands _

_ Ser Jorah of House Mormont, _

_ Last of his Line; _

_ Strong Old Bear, _

_ Loyal Fist of the Queen, _

_ and the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men. _

**Author's Note:**

> Second one of these. Probably just gonna do the rest of the Starks after this one, though I may be up for a potential continuation, if enough people ask for it.
> 
> Also: yes, Rhaegal is alive. I started writing this before the 5th, so no stupid, unnecessary dragon-death here.
> 
> Finally: man, "South" perfectly encapsulates Dany's journey and her relationship with Jorah. Good job, Sleeping at Last.


End file.
